THE NEW YORKER, AUGUST 1, 2016
55
W to the
bagel place, there was the
usual line, but his hope
dwindled with every face that wasn't
hers. He went around the block for the
dozenth time. After that, he came un-
tethered and wandered south.
Heedless at the corners, he was nearly
hit by a cab. He turned right for no rea-
son, and on that block, as he walked, some
invisible industrial fan seemed to whir
violently, sending up trash. Suddenly, be-
fore his eyes, there was an aircraft carrier.
There was motion and transition ev-
erywhere, the urgent, churning city, the
cry of a siren fading around the block.
At the Empire State Building, they tried
to get him to take a tour.
He and his wife had married in Cuba
(by way of Nicaragua) four years earlier,
long before the embargo was lifted.They
had thrilled to the risk, the style, of kick-
ing o their days under staid old matri-
mony in such rebel fashion. There was a
priest, and a punto band, and the beach,
and the stars, and the northern wind, and
everything about that night was emblem-
atic of how they hoped to shape the years.
Now they would divorce. Well, so what?
Sooner or later, everyone got divorced.
Knowing it was useless---she was
gone, gone---he threw his cell phone
into a trash can. When he came to his
senses and returned for it, he searched
and searched, but he had the wrong
street corner.
Cyclists yelled at him on the Brook-
lyn Bridge. He found himself gripping
something with fierce resolve. Looking
down, he discovered a glossy postcard
advertising two-for-one drinks during
happy hour at a gentlemen's club. He
tried putting it away, but there was no
back pocket. He was wearing his gray
linen pajama pants. What did it mat-
ter? It was over. Nothing mattered.
He had known better than to marry.
He'd seen his parents hurt each other,
and leave, and hurt and leave others, the
casual lovers, the stepparents. But he
gave it a shot anyway, and it ended pretty
much as he imagined, with him wan-
dering the streets in tears.
I surprise where he wound
up. He hoped to find her there.
How he loved her---her face, her smile.
He took a deep breath and entered
the lobby.
"Who is it?" she asked through an
ancient intercom.
"It's Nick," he said, and there fol-
lowed the longest pause of his life. He
had second thoughts. Was he present-
able enough? Could he make the right
impression? Another minute went by
before she buzzed him in.
The elevator, an old cat hibernating
on some upper floor, rattled to life when
he called it and roared down to him.
The doors opened, and he stepped for-
wardwithhisheaddown. . .andasec-
ond later stepped back with his head
up, as a family of four charged out---the
father first, with the stride of a band-
leader, then an excitable boy in a Viking
hat blasting enemies with a caulk gun,
then a German shepherd, then an older
brother wearing athletic knee-highs and
a soccer jersey as long as a gown, fol-
lowed at last by Mom, stuck, with her
rumpled flannel shirt and sweatpants,
in the wrong family in the wrong sea-
son, crying out for Bill to be careful with
the tomatoes.
"Oh, my God," she said, and stopped
and stared. They had switched places:
he was inside the elevator, and she
was looking at him from the lobby.
"I thought that was you." She was
gawking. She was tongue-tied. "You
are just . . . awesome."
"Thank you," he said, pressing the
button to hurry the door along.
"I mean it---I just love you."
"Thanks."
She finally came to her senses, and
a hand shot up to her mouth. "Oh, I'm
so embarrassed!" she said. The door
began to close. She waved. "Bye!"
On his way up, he put the family out
of mind and returned to thinking about
her---her face, her smile.
He stepped o the elevator, and there
she was, on the phone, propping the
apartment door open. One strap of her
denim overalls hung o her shoulder,
and when she saw him she smiled hap-
pily.Then he neared, and her happiness
faded. She palmed the mouthpiece. "Is
something wrong?" she said.
"She's gone."
"Who's gone?"
"My wife," he said.
She frowned, waved him in, and hur-
ried to get o the phone.
He moved inside, out of the way of
the closing door. How many times in
the past had he stood like this, on the
brink, with the merciless eyes of a child?
He took in the Santa Claus welcome
mat many months out of season, the
wicker basket against the far wall spill-
ing over with sandals and tennis shoes,
the lacquered console table on which
the house keys and loose change had
been tossed . . . and all the many colors,
and vibes, and impressions, and the hun-
dred other ways these perfect strangers
chose to live. On, astonishingly, six other
occasions, when his parents met other
people, and fell in love, and married,
and ordered the instant integration of
two families' lives, their laundry, and
their lore (and, to often disastrous e ect,
their DNA)---the Morgans, followed
by the Dinardos and the Teahans, on
his mother's side; the Winklows, the
Andersons, and that insu erable Lee
clan, on his father's---he had stood like
this, appraising and rejecting, and want-
ing nothing more than to return to the
bunk bed in his first room, where all the
linens and the wall shadows had been
under a single, steady proprietorship.
For as soon as his parents were married
and moved in, and all the painful ad-
justments were made, they were divorc-
ing again and moving out.
"I'm sorry," she said. "This will just
take another minute."
"Are you alone?" he asked.
She raised a finger and looked away
as she wrapped things up with customer
service.
A di erent stranger might have fled,
but, as he was easy in unfamiliar sur-
roundings---one of the virtues of his
childhood---he made himself at home
and casually took in the state of the
apartment. It was a mess. There were
toys everywhere, puzzle pieces com-
muning with cereal flakes under the
table, and a pink knit blanket on the
hardwood floor which she presently
swooped down on with furious e ciency
(pocketing the cell phone at last) and
folded as they approached the door lead-
ing into the next room.
"I can't believe it," she was saying.
"It's really you!"
"It's really me," he said. "Were you
painting?"
"Oh, trying to." She put her finger
to her lips. "We have to go through the
baby's room to get to the living room,"
she whispered. "It's the crazy way this